


Snapshot

by captain_starcat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-24
Updated: 2010-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_starcat/pseuds/captain_starcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sounds of chanting and syncopated drum beats roll through the cobbled streets of a small town that wouldn't look out of place somewhere in rural France. The planet, however, is M38-978, and the people are far more Bollywood than anything that ever came out of Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshot

The sounds of chanting and syncopated drum beats roll through the cobbled streets of a small town that wouldn't look out of place somewhere in rural France. The planet, however, is M38-978, and the people are far more Bollywood than anything that ever came out of Europe. The sounds of revelry draw closer and closer until the parade turns a corner into view, a flurry of orange and pink against the stones.

At the center of the throng, surrounded by drummers and garlanded with bright orange flowers, is SGA-1. Teyla is smiling: these people have been a good ally to the Athosians in the past, and she is fond of the fruit they offer in trade. She walks serenely, petals scattered on her P-90. Behind her, John smirks at Rodney beside him, who's bitching quietly about a) pollen, b) John's puddlejumper antics that had been necessary to take down the Wraith dart that ambushed them coming through the gate, leading to c) the overly enthusiastic (and thankful) natives and their stupid parade, especially d) the ones currently leering at Rodney's team leader and e) his hair. His garland slips slowly down his forehead, unnoticed, as he rants. John's got his pushed back at an angle, engaged in a war of visual volume with said hair. Ronon brings up the rear, twirling his gun and looking bemused (and possibly mildly pained) at the flowers stuck in his dreds.

Behind him, more drummers keep the time as dancers swirl around them, followed by streams of chanting townspeople. The crowd gets thinner as the parade winds by, until the only ones left are children, questionably in the procession at all as they play some version of tag involving leaves, chasing each other through the streets after their parents. Soon enough, they too are out of sight. The street is empty after they pass, leaving behind only echoing drumbeats and orange petals strewn across the cobblestones.


End file.
